My Name Is Catherine Willows
by Erin Kaye Hashet
Summary: Catherine reflects on all that has made her who she is today.


Title: My Name Is Catherine Willows  
Author: Erin Kaye Hashet  
Rating: PG  
Feedback: EKHashet@hotmail.com  
Spoilers: References to all the episodes that mention Eddie, and Felonious Monk.  
Summary: Catherine reflects on all that has made her who she is today.  
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters; no infringement intended. I'm not   
making any money off this, so you can't sue me.  
Author's Note: I've never written CSI fanfic before, but after I saw "The Finger"   
I just admired Catherine so much that I kind of rediscovered why she's my favorite character. She's just so complex, and her life has so many contradictions- like   
why was a strong, smart woman like her a stripper? This story is my attempt to answer some of those questions.  
  
My Name Is Catherine Willows  
by Erin Kaye Hashet  
  
My name is Catherine Willows.  
  
Every morning I repeat that to myself. It helps me to remember who I am-- as   
oppposed to who I was, and who I will be. Who I am today may be a completely   
different person than who I am tomorrow.  
  
But every day, one thing remains the same: my name is Catherine Willows.   
  
I never knew my father.  
  
Literally. I don't know his name, or how old he is, or if he's even alive. I   
wonder, sometimes, if I look like him. I look nothing like my mother, but for all I   
know she' s not even my mother.  
  
Sometimes I feel like I never knew her, either. She was a drug addict who, half   
the time, forgot about me. She forgot a lot of things, actually. Like who my   
father was. Honestly, that's what she said when I asked her who my father was:   
"I don't remember." She probably wasn't lying. My father could have been any   
one of the guys she slept with while she was high.  
  
My memory is a little better than my mother's. A lot better, in fact. I still   
remember kindergarten. I remember my teacher, Mrs. Westcott. She was a   
pretty woman, young, with shoulder-length honey-blond hair and piercing   
blue eyes. She always wore cherry-red lipstick, but it didn't look gaudy, at   
least not to a five-year-old. To this day, when I hear the word "red," that's   
what I think of: Mrs. Westcott's cherry-red lipstick.   
  
I remember the flash cards she'd hold up to the class, with the letters of   
the alphabet on them. We'd have to say the letter and the sound it made.   
"This is A and the sounds are ay and ah. This is B and the sound is buh," we'd   
all chorus. I memorized those flash cards without even realizing it.  
  
On the last day of kindergarten, we were each given a book, one of those   
Little Golden Books. At home, I sat down with mine and sounded out every   
word. It took awhile. By the end of the first page, I was exhausted. But I was   
also jubilant: I'd done it. I was reading.  
  
The next fall I started first grade. My teacher's name was Mrs. Heavey, and   
she was much older than Mrs. Westcott. The first day of school I brought   
my beloved Golden Book with me.  
  
"This year we'll be learning how to read," I remember Mrs. Heavey saying. I   
raised my hand.  
  
"Yes. . .Catherine?" she said, reading my name tag.  
  
"I can read this book," I announced.   
  
"Can you?" Mrs. Heavey said in a voice that said she really didn't believe me.   
  
"Yup," I replied. I opened it and began to read the first page.  
  
"All right, that's enough, Catherine," Mrs. Heavey said in a warning tone.   
But just before we left for recess, she asked if she could speak to me for   
a minute.  
  
Suspecting, probably, that I was merely reciting the book from memory,   
Mrs. Heavey flipped a few pages and asked me to read. I did just that.   
Frowning, she flipped a few more pages, pointed to a word, and asked me what   
it was. I told her.  
  
It wasn't long before it was established that I was the only kid in the class   
who could read.  
  
When I was seven, my mother gave birth to my sister, Annemarie. I don't   
know who Annemarie's father was, either. But not knowing our fathers   
gave my half-sister and me something in common. Even though she's seven   
years younger than me, Annemarie was, and is to this day, my best friend.   
  
My entire childhood, if you can call it that, was spent doing two things:   
studying and taking care of Annemarie. I took much better care of her than   
my mother did. Not that my mother didn't try- she really did. She did want to   
quit doing drugs. But her drug-free periods were never long, and most of   
her extra money was spent on drugs.  
  
But all that studying paid off in the end, because I was awarded a full   
scholarship to the University of Nevada.  
  
The summer before I started college I took a job baby-sitting for the Martin   
family. Mr. and Mrs. Martin were taking a ballroom dancing class together,   
so they needed a sitter every Friday night. One of my high school friends   
told me about them. I already had a job but I thought that it might be a good   
way to make some extra money.   
  
The Martins lived in this pretty little house in the suburbs with a white   
picket fence- seriously. They had twin five-year-olds, Greg and Calli, who   
were so cute and so sweet that they looked like they should have halos over   
their little heads. Greg was a chubby little thing, blond, blue-eyed,   
and always smiling. Calli had red hair and freckles and a constant smile,   
just like her brother. Calli took ballet and Greg played T-ball. The whole   
family was very involved in their church. Calli and Greg got along great,   
and they loved their parents. And their parents loved each other. They   
always came home from ballroom dancing smiling and looking into each   
other's eyes like they wanted to kiss but not in front of the baby-sitter.   
  
I started to become suspicious. I mean, no family is that pefect. But I did a   
little snooping and I never found any evidence to the contrary. In the drawer   
I found coupons that Mr. and Mrs. Martin had given each other for Valentine's   
Day, coupons for things like a moonlit walk, a romantic dinner, some chocolate-covered strawberries, and sex- which made me quickly put them away   
and try to forget about them. I looked at the photo album and found not only   
happy pictures but also detailed descriptions of those pictures: "We had so   
much fun on our trip to Disneyland. . ." "Calli lost her first tooth on January   
10th and Greg lost his three days later. . ."  
  
Something about that photo album hit me hard. I realized that I was jealous.   
I wanted everything that the Martins had. And they weren't even rich- they   
were just happy, loving, and financially secure. I made a vow then that I   
would spend my life working for what they had, so that my children would   
not have to go through what I went through.  
  
I loved college. Absolutely loved it. For the first time, I had two things: fun   
and friends. And I was studying science, which had always been my favorite   
subject. I thought I was finally on the path to achieving that perfect life that   
the Martins had.  
  
Then, when I had just one semester of college left before I graduated, it   
happened.  
  
My mother died of a drug overdose.  
  
I was twenty-two. Annemarie was fifteen.  
  
I dropped out of college so that I could take care of her. But it soon became   
clear that I didn't have enough money to do so. I was feeling desperate. . . and   
then I learned that a nearby strip club was hiring. I also remembered hearing  
somewhere that strippers make more money than teachers.   
  
So I auditioned. And somehow, I got the job. All my money problems   
instantly disappeared.   
  
But I hated working there. I hated how cheap it made me feel, like there was   
nothing beneath my skin. I hated all the horny guys who would take me out   
for dinner in hopes of screwing me before they ran back to their wives or girlfriends.  
  
But I only hated it until I got my paycheck. That was what got me to work   
every day and what made me stay there even after Annemarie graduated   
from high school, went to college on a scholarship, and moved out of our   
apartment.   
  
Gradually, though, I began to adjust to working there. I met another   
stripper named Stephanie Watson, and she became my best friend. Life became   
a little more bearable, and I even opened myself up to the possibility of meeting   
guys at the strip club.   
  
So I met Eddie Willows, a guy who put together bands for a living. Stupidly, I   
thought he was different from the other guys because he actually asked me   
on a few dates before he wanted sex. And, stupidly, I gave him what he wanted.   
  
"Strip for me, gorgeous," he said to me back at his apartment after our third   
date. I did, just the way I did at work. Eddie grinned like it was Christmas. "Oh,   
yes. . ." he said under his breath.   
  
He threw me down onto his bed and pinned me down by the collarbone. Later   
when I checked I found bruises there. At the time I was a little stunned. It was   
sex like I had never expereienced it before. It was violent, it was scary- but I   
loved it. If I'd only known what it foreshadowed.  
  
Eddie and I continued dating for a long time. Then one day my period was late.  
  
I panicked. In my mind I had visions of the past repeating itself. My child would   
grow up with a stripper mother, never knowing its father. *No,* I thought to   
myself. *No, it can't be. . .*   
  
But it wasn't, although it took six home pregnancy tests to convince me of   
that. Even so, that experience was a reality check for me. I knew that someday   
I might get pregnant for real- and I wasn't about to let my child go through   
what I went through as a child.   
  
"Eddie," I said to him the next time I saw him, "look, I've been thinking about   
this. . .and I don't think this is going to work. I think I'm too old now for just. . .  
you know, a good time every night. I need to be in a serious. . .*committed*   
relationship. I think I owe that to my future children."  
  
Eddie stood there for a minute with this blank look on his face.   
  
"Ed," I said, starting to feel bad, "I'm sorry, but I-"  
  
"Okay, then," said Eddie finally. "Let's get married."  
  
I looked at him, unable to believe my ears. "What?"   
  
"You heard me," he said, his mouth stretching into a grin. "You want a   
committed relationship. . .let's get married."  
  
I just sat there gaping at him for the longest time. And I loved him then- or at   
least I thought I did. So I went up to him and kissed him hard on the lips. "Okay,   
then," I said.  
  
So we got married in one of those Las Vegas wedding chapels that all of the   
tourists go to.   
  
The next day I called Annemarie. "So what's up?" I asked her. I expected her   
to say, "Ah, not much," like she usually did, but instead she actually   
answered.  
  
"Ohh, Cath, I just had the most boring date in history!" she groaned.   
"Last night I went out with this guy who Joanne told me about, and she failed   
to tell me he was a recovering alcoholic! But I found that out soon enough.   
He introduced himself to me the way he did at his first AA meeting. He goes,   
'My name is Jeff Smith, and I am an alcoholic.'"  
  
I laughed sympathetically, even though I was dying for the story to be over   
so that I could tell her my news.  
  
"And that was the high point of the date. My God." Annemarie sighed. "So,   
what have you been up to? Hope your love life's better than mine."  
  
"Well, I got married last night," I told her casually.  
  
I let her shriek and exclaim and congratulate for awhile. Something was   
bothering me, though. When I got off the phone I figured out what.   
  
*My name is Jeff Smith, and I am an alcoholic.*  
  
I was glad I wasn't an alcoholic. I would have hated that- having to summarize   
myself to strangers in terms of one thing. Jeff Smith could have been so many   
things- maybe he played tennis, maybe he sold insurance, maybe he went to a   
good college, maybe he liked to read mysteries- but all the people at his AA   
meetings would know was that he was an alcoholic, at least at first. Because   
that was how he had summarized himself- "My name is Jeff Smith, and I am   
an alcoholic."  
  
I knew that they had alcoholics say that because the first step to an   
alcoholic's recovery is admitting that he has a problem. But I thought, maybe,   
that it might also be because it sounded so harsh to sum up your whole life,   
your whole self, by saying "I am an alcoholic." I thought that just saying   
that sentence would make me want to change myself, so that I could   
summarize myself some different way.  
  
I looked at myself in the mirror. I had a new name now. "My name is   
Catherine Willows," I said to myself, and I liked the sound of it. Catherine   
Willows. Catherine Willows. "My name is Catherine Willows," I said in my mind,   
"and I am married."  
  
After that, it became a sort of game with me. I used my name to sum up   
whatever I was feeling at the moment. When I got a large paycheck, I said to   
myself, "My name is Catherine Willows, and I am rich." When Eddie and I moved   
out of the apartment into our first home, I said to myself, "My name is   
Catherine Willows, and I am a homeowner." When Eddie kissed me, I said to   
myself, "My name is Catherine Willows, and I am loved."   
  
Meanwhile, the strip club had gotten more interesting than ever. A man named   
Jimmy Tadero began frequenting the club, and he started telling me about   
cases he worked on. Something about those cases piqued my interest. I'd always   
liked science, but I'd never really thought about it being used to solve crimes. He   
told me about all the different ways that crimes could be solved- fingerprints,   
hair samples, all that stuff. I'd always listen intently when he described a case   
to me.   
  
"There's this victim," I remember him saying. "Female, twenty-two. Shot in the   
temple while she slept in her apartment. Looks like it was an intruder- we got   
a print off the windowsill."  
  
"Any suspects?" I asked.  
  
"Well, we talked to her parents," he said. "They're devastated. Only child,   
you know?" He shook his head sadly. "But we got from them that she was seeing   
some guy. Got the guy's name from one of her friends. He's fifty-four years   
old. Married, too."  
  
"You check this guy out?" I asked.   
  
"Of course," he replied. "He's got a rock-solid alibi. Out for a beer with his   
tennis buddies. Their stories all match up."  
  
"What about the wife? Did she know about the girl?"  
  
"Sure did. None too happy, either. But we checked her, and her prints don't   
match up." He sighed. "We're thinking maybe she hired someone to kill her."  
  
"Unless. . ." I thought aloud, "she didn't do it at all."  
  
Jimmy looked at me like I was crazy. "Well, if she didn't do it, who did?"  
  
"Does the guy have any kids?" I asked him.   
  
He looked surprised. "Why, yes, he does. Two girls, twenty-five and nineteen.   
Older girl lives in New York, younger girl in Reno."  
  
"We-ell. . ." I said, "if I were one of them, I wouldn't be too happy about my fifty-four-year-old father cheating on my mother with a girl young enough to   
be my sister."  
  
The next time I saw Jimmy he walked right up to me and gave me a hug.   
"Catherine Willows," he said, "you are amazing."  
  
"What?" I asked, flattered but confused. "What did I do?"  
  
"We ran prints on the daughter," he said excitedly, "the one in Reno."  
  
"And you got a match?!" I cried.   
  
"We got a *confession,*" he said happily. "We caught a killer, Cath. And we   
never would have caught her without you." He shook his head in amazement. "I   
tell you, you are one smart cookie, Catherine."  
  
I didn't stop smiling for the rest of the night. *One smart cookie.* It had been   
so long since someone had called me that. Somewhere along the line, I had   
forgotten that I had taught myself to read. That I graduated high school at   
the top of my class. That I was awarded a full scholarship to college.   
  
"My name is Catherine Willows," I said to myself, "and I am smart."  
  
I kept right on helping Jimmy with his cases and giving him ideas. But it was   
one thing to hear about crime, and a totally different thing when it   
was right in front of me.   
  
Stephanie Watson was murdered one dark night as she left the strip club.   
  
I don't remember crying. I just remember going numb, shutting myself into   
my bedroom, and not returning to work. I couldn't imagine ever going back   
to work. Stephanie, my best friend, wouldn't be there anymore.   
  
They thought she was killed by a man named Kelso, who was convicted of   
her murder. We didn't find out until recently that it wasn't him. Kelso had   
been threatening her inside the strip club. I thought to myself that if   
Stephanie hadn't been a stripper, she'd still be alive.   
  
I looked at myself in the mirror. "My name is Catherine Willows, and I am a   
stripper," I said.   
  
I winced. I hated the way those words sounded. So I made up my mind to   
change myself. I told myself that if it didn't work out, I could always go   
back and dance. But deep down, I knew I never would.   
  
I went back to school and got my diploma. Then, with Jimmy's help, I went to   
school to become a CSI. After I graduated, I found a job with the LVPD, and   
there I met Gil Grissom.   
  
Since then, I have become a CSI 3. I have solved countless crimes, some of   
which have made me sick, or angry, or deeply sad. But the feeling I get when   
a criminal is put away is the same every time: the deep satisfaction that   
justice is being served. That's what keeps me coming back every day.   
  
I loved my new job, and every day I came home happy. But as my professional   
life got better, my personal life got worse- much worse.   
  
It had never bothered Eddie that I made more money than him as a stripper. But   
now that I had a job that was respectable *and* paid a lot of money, he   
was threatened. And that made him hostile. He started getting angry at me   
for no reason. When I asked him a question, he snapped at me, "You're the   
brilliant scientist, you tell me!" And he kept accusing me of having an affair   
with Grissom. I got new, fancy underwear once and he said sarcastically, "Is   
that for your boss?"  
  
I got sick of it. So sick that I made up my mind to divorce him. *I could do better,*   
I thought. And then my home pregnancy test was positive. So were five more.  
  
And I knew then that I was staying. I wanted my future children to have   
everything I didn't have as a child: two married parents, a nice house,   
financial security- the life of the Martins. Getting divorced would screw up   
all that.   
  
But Eddie surprised me: he was thrilled that I was pregnant. He stopped   
yelling at me and accusing me and started being in love with me again. He   
spent hours with me on the couch with a baby book, picking out names. He   
started bringing me presents for no apparent reason. If I got morning   
sickness, he was there holding my hair as I leaned over the toilet. If I had   
food cravings- usually for chips and chocolate, not for pickles and ice   
cream- he was more than willing to run to the store to get them for me.   
  
Eddie cried like a baby when Lindsey was born. I remember looking at him in   
shock in the delivery room. It was the most endearing thing in the world to   
see him sobbing with joy over the birth of his daughter. I looked down at the   
tiny miracle in my arms and felt joy and love of my own that transcended   
words. *My name is Catherine Willows,* I thought, *and I am the mother of a   
beautiful baby girl.*  
  
For the next few years, our marriage was wonderful. Our love for Lindsey   
brought us closer together. Together we shared the joy of her first smile,   
her first words, her first steps. She was- is- such a beautiful, loveable little   
girl. When she ran to us and threw her arms around us both and said, "I love   
you, Mommy. I love you, Daddy," I looked at Eddie and wondered how I could   
ever have thought about divorcing him.   
  
But then it all started again. The nastiness, the "you're-the-brilliant-  
scientist" garbage, the accusations. Especially the accusations. Some days   
it seemed like every other word out of his mouth was "Grissom." It became   
clear that our mutual love for Lindsey didn't mean that we loved each other.   
Soon I felt exactly the way that I did before I got pregnant.   
  
Then the hostility began to escalate into full-blown fights. More often than   
not we spent our nights screaming at each other at the tops of our lungs. He   
won most fights because I let him. I would be in the middle of a fight when it   
would occur to me: *Lindsey's upstairs. Lindsey's listening to this. Lindsey's   
probably really scared.* And then I knew that I could not continue the fight.   
  
But the fights continued- night after night after night.   
  
He did hit me- just once.   
  
Even with my good memory, I can't remember how the fight started. That's   
how trivial it was. It just escalated, and the next thing I knew we were   
screaming at each other. Finally, I picked my keys from the kitchen counter,   
not thinking clearly. "That's IT! I am LEAVING!" I screamed.   
  
Eddie's face hardened. I had never seen him so angry, and it frightened me.   
That's why I didn't react when he took the keys from me and threw them in the   
trash. "No, you are not," he said in a low, menacing voice, and then his hand   
smashed across my cheek.   
  
I stumbled backward, shocked. No one had ever hit me before. I studied his   
face and thought that I could see a hint of remorse there, but I could also  
see that his mule-headedness wasn't going to let him apologize. He got out  
his own keys and went out the front door. As the situation finally began to  
sink in, I heard his car pulling out of the driveway.   
  
I took a deep, shaky breath. *Oh, God, please don't let Lindsey have heard   
that,* I thought, and to this day I'm not sure whether or not she did.   
  
I really couldn't leave then- if I did, Lindsey would be alone. But there was the   
matter of getting back my keys.   
  
I got down on my knees and opened the bottom part of the trash compactor.   
I couldn't see the keys. So I dug around and felt for them. Still no luck. I kept  
digging for them until my hands finally closed around them. Then suddenly I   
stopped and realized something.   
  
*My name is Catherine Willows, and I am up to my elbows in garbage.*  
  
The next day I went to visit Annemarie, and I told her everything. She was, to   
say the least, outraged. I'll leave out all the names she called him.   
  
"Catherine, you can't stay with him now," she said. I said nothing.   
  
"Catherine! Don't tell me you were actually considering *staying* with   
that. . ."  
  
"You want Lindsey to grow up like we did?"   
  
"You think it's any better for her to grow up in a house where her dad hits   
her mom?" Annemarie retorted.   
  
"But. . ." I paused. "But what if I stay with him and he never hits me again?"  
  
"But what if he does?" she countered.   
  
I was silent for a second. "But maybe. . ."  
  
Annemarie placed her hand firmly on top of mine and looked squarely into   
my eyes. Slowly and deliberately, she repeated her words. "*What if he   
does*?"  
  
I got the message.   
  
And I wish I could stay that when I got home I told him that we were finished.   
But I didn't. And for three weeks, things were civil between us.   
  
Then one Friday night, I had to work late. So I called Eddie and told him what   
time I'd be home and to pick up Lindsey at Annemarie's house. But I ended up   
finishing earlier than I'd expected. When I got home, there were two cars in   
the driveway. One was Eddie's. The other was unfamiliar.   
  
When I opened the door, I heard very loud music that I recognized as an old   
Boyz II Men CD we had lying around. Eddie probably didn't hear me come in as   
the music played. I went upstairs into our bedroom. The first thing I saw was   
Eddie's bare back facing me amid the rumpled sheets of our bed. The second   
thing I saw was a woman. Beneath him.   
  
I picked the remote control off the night table and turned off the music.   
Their movements stopped. Eddie turned around.   
  
"Who's your friend, Eddie?" I asked evenly.  
  
He looked sheepish- really sheepish. "This is, uh, Melanie," he replied,   
sitting up a little straighter in bed. "I, uh. . .I met her at work."  
  
"Melanie," I repeated cooly. Even in my fury I thought that she was beautiful-   
creamy skin, silky brown hair, waif-thin. "Nice to meet you. Where's Lindsey?"  
  
"She's, uh. . .she's sleeping over at Elizabeth's house," he said.  
  
That was all I needed. I turned and walked out the door.   
  
And I left- finally.   
  
I stopped at the first hotel I saw and checked myself in. I almost wrote a   
fake name, just for the heck of it, but at the last minute I wrote my real   
name: Catherine Willows.   
  
I don't cry.  
  
I never have. Not even when people die- people like my mother, or Stephanie,   
or my colleague Holly Gribbs. I don't remember crying a lot as a child- and I   
have a good memory.  
  
I cried in the hotel room. Just lay down on the bed and cried my eyes out.   
  
When I finished crying I got up and stared at myself in the bathroom mirror.   
"My name is Catherine Willows," I said out loud, "and I am married to a man who   
treats me like crap."  
  
The next time I saw Eddie I presented him with divorce papers.   
  
And although I had moments where I doubted it, it was definitely the best   
decision I ever made. Since that day, he's been more and more of a jerk. He   
tried to cheat me out of my money by taking a second mortgage on the house.   
He almost hit me again, this time right in front of Grissom. And when I forgot   
to pick up Lindsey once he called Child Services on me- as if I were the criminal.  
  
He does love Lindsey, I'll give him that. But that is his only redeeming quality.  
  
I worry about Lindsey. I mean, every mother worries about her child, but I   
*really* worry about Lindsey. She's had to go through so much at such a   
young age, and I worry about how she'll deal with it, about how it's going to   
affect her later in life.   
  
I talked to Annemarie about it once. "Oh, Catherine, you have nothing to   
worry about," she told me. "Look at everything you went through as a kid. You   
had no father and a drug-addict mother who was never there for you. Now,   
Lindsey," she continued, "has a mother who loves her and is *always* there   
for her." She smiled. "Just like you were always there for me. You're only   
seven years older than me and you've taken care of me my whole life, for God's   
sake! And I turned out okay."  
  
I had to agree with that. Annemarie was happily married and had a beautiful   
little boy named Jeremy. She was more than okay. She was very happy.   
  
"And you're okay, too, Cath," she continued. "So I'm sure Lindsey will be."  
  
*Okay.*   
  
That night, I slept well. When I woke up in the morning, I went to the mirror.   
I looked at the woman inside of it. She was forty-ish, strawberry blonde- at   
least with the new dye job- and pretty. She was a mother and she was an ex-wife.   
She was smart, she was strong, and she was capable. She was resilient. She   
was a crime scene investigator- and a good one. She was honest with herself.   
And she had a heart full of love- love for life, love for her family, love for   
her friends, and love for herself.  
  
"My name is Catherine Willows," I said to myself, "and I am okay."  
  
The End  
  
Thanks for reading my first CSI fic! Please review. My e-mail address is EKHashet@hotmail.com 


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